"You're going to make me do bad things to you, sweetheart." | Frank Rider is the new teacher. His favourite word is 'detention'. He's iniquitous, rude and vicious. To get on his bad side would be suicide. Unfortunately for Cleo, she's already dived...
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CHAPTER XXV
Mom was originally supposed to be having triplets. She plodded off to the hospital, arm coiled with dad's, trying her hardest to hold in her grimaces of pain. Her back felt like it was on fire. The sonographer – a woman with a helmet full of black twists and plump pink cheeks and a round chin – fussed over her. She was a jolly woman. She led Mom to a dimly lit room, gestured for her to lie on the bed and asked her to lift her top up. She slathered her stomach in cold gel and pressed a probe to her bulging tummy. She watched the black and white ultrasound screen for a while, moving the probe about. Her eyes widened and then she beamed at Mom. "Triplets! Oh, what a lovely surprise!" Mom didn't think so. She and dad planned for one baby. One.
"Triplets?" she repeated in horror, sharing the look with her husband who looked like he'd been struck over the head with a club. She shook her head, dazed. "How could I possibly be...oh god. I'm going to faint." By the time she'd gotten home, dad had warmed to the idea, he had leaned forward on the drive back, stiff fingers gripping the steering wheel, silent. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of strong whiskey and grinned. "Cheer up, Iva! We're going to have a litter! I should call the family, let them know!"
"Oh god," she put her head in her hands in despair. It took her months to get her head around the idea. Triplets! Good grief. She didn't think she'd be able to raise a child let alone three. When dad wasn't in the morgue, he was painting over the nursery and filling the room with cuddly toys and building cots.
She was in labour for over twelve painfully long and exhausting hours. Eton was first out. Chubby, quiet and adorable. The nurses cooed over him. He was wrapped in a white blanket and whisked away. She thought it would all be worth it, that the pain wouldn't matter if the rest came out like him. Sweaty and crushing dad's hand in hers, she screamed to the high heavens, pushing with all her might. I was next. I was an angry-red shade, screeching with the lungs of an Olympian swimmer, fists waving in the air, thirty odd minutes after my brother. I kicked my legs, thrashing violently, howling when the nurse tried to wipe my sticky, gooey head. It was then the life left her: the doctor had a troubled look, he murmured lowly with the nurses. She was on the verge of blacking out. "What? What is it?"
They reassured her I was fine. "Push a little more, sweetheart," the doctor encouraged, "you're almost there!" She gritted her teeth, hating the term of endearment: it always came across as patronising no matter who said it. She screamed and bellowed and cursed frantically. She was in unbearable agony and the third didn't want to seem to come out. It was an hour later when she collapsed on the bed, depleted. Her eyes fluttered shut. Dad kissed her on the forehead, murmuring over and over what a good job she did, how proud he was of her. She leaned up, elbows on the pillows to give her stability and she demanded. "My babies. Give me my babies."
The doctor looked grave. The room was deadly quiet. Machines beeped steadily. The atmosphere was suffocating. She began weeping just as the doctor announced the time of death. Triplets became twins. The umbilical cord had choked the third, he was a ghastly shade of blue, head misshapen, eyes bugged out, mouth parted and twisted. It was grotesque. It didn't look like a baby.
